Visiatations
by Persephone-il
Summary: Crossover with Harry Potter. Percy Weasley has a strange conversation. Brad ponders Fate.


Title: Visitations  
Author: Persephone  
E-mail: Persefone_il@y...  
Status: Complete  
Type: Crossover with Harry Potter  
Spoilers: None  
Rating: G  
Content warning: None  
Summary: Percy Weasley has a strange conversation. Brad ponders Fate.  
  
**

Visitations

**  
  
The boy adjusts thick horn-rimmed glasses and asks, quite pointedly, "Can I help you?"   
  
"I doubt it," I say, and earn a blink.   
  
I do know my way around Officials. For most of my professional life, the continuance of said life depended on knowing how to deal with bureaucrats and other such parasites of our society. This one is low ranking and ambitious, and I don't need to take any shit, to quote a hot tempered team mate of mine, from him.   
  
He seems to disagree. His expression is haughty as he says, "Then please allow me to do my job. I'm very busy."   
  
"Do go on," I say. "I won't interrupt you."   
  
"You are in my office. I assumed you had some business here but if you don't, you're a distraction. Kindly do what you need to do or leave." Preferably both, I hear in his tone.   
  
"Is this your office?" I say, surveying the place. It's not an insult, as offices go; it merely says, 'The person working here has no significance whatsoever'. Offices can be surprisingly eloquent, for those who are familiar with their intimacies.   
  
He crosses his arms and narrowed his eyes and says, "Do you have some business with the Ministry? A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do."   
  
"Yes, then. Which doesn't mean you are any help to me."   
  
He starts inflating with fury, but pauses in the midst of it to reconsider. Ah. He is a snotty bureaucrat, but one who can learn - and therefore, one who possibly has a future in this dark, dangerous world.   
  
Our little group has business in many, many worlds, and is part of none. That might have been a part of our code, had one been written down. I like to attribute this lack of paper evidence to proper secrecy, but the simple truth is that the members of my team - read, Schuldig - are too lazy to bother with writing.   
  
Eszett would have drooled at the mere knowledge of the building I'm standing in, never mind the not-quite-hidden length of wood the bureaucrat in the making standing in front of me is unobtrusively carrying.   
"Very well," he says, and goes back to his report writing. His script is small and dense, but rather legible. I catch the word 'inappropriate' and look away. Papers that have the word 'inappropriate' in them are a waste of time, nine times out of ten, and dangerous to read the tenth time.   
  
I conclude that my very presence is annoying to him, because he raises his head to look at me not five minutes after having gone back to his desk. He says nothing, merely staring at him. I take the opportunity to stare back.   
He isn't quite a boy, although his... would passion be the right word? Passion for his job makes him seem extremely young and excitable. He is in his early twenties, perhaps. He has a determined face, for one his age, but no signs of the forced aging my group and I went through. This one has a family that loves him; I'm willing to bet on this point.   
  
I smile at him thinly and say, "I thought you had work to do."   
  
He tilts his head slightly. "Which I can't do while you're here." A trace of anger is back in his voice. "Would you mind telling me what you are doing here, beside bothering me?"   
  
I shrug and say, "I'm waiting to see what happens next."  
  
"What happens next is that I won't finish this report and get fired," he says. His voice is quiet, but in this small space it's difficult for sound to get lost.   
  
I am not a man to miss a chance when I see one. I say, "How important is your job to you?"   
  
He laughs, and the sound is bitter. "More than anything." His eyes dart, for less than a second, to a framed photograph on the wall. At least, I suppose that's what it is; the frame is turned so that the picture is facing the wall, revealing nothing but cardboard to my eyes. I don't need to see it to know, though; a family picture of some sort, perhaps a fianc?e or a wife. Stories like this boy's are eternal. Only the names and faces change.   
  
I say, "I see. You were trying to make a life of your own, where you'd be successful and glorified, and gave up everything for this cause. Now you find that the job isn't quite as faithful to you as you were to it. Correct?"   
  
He stares around the office gloomily and says, "Quite."   
  
"Ah."   
  
He waits a few seconds more, but I have nothing further to say. I turn and leave his office.   
  
Schuldig is waiting for me in a car outside. "Well?" he says.   
  
"Quite well. In three weeks or so, that boy is going to be full of regret. He'll turn to the good, so to speak, and become a spy. His information will ensure their winning this war."   
  
Schuldig whoops, and says, "Sure you don't need me to help matters along?"   
  
"Better if you didn't. These people have their way of detecting mental infiltrations. It will make matters difficult, if you were found out."   
  
"Oh, please. Live a little." But he drives away without a fuss, and I stare outside the window at the roadside.   
  
This wasn't a paid job. Neither of the sides in this war even knows of our existence. The boy in the office, whose name I still don't know, thought me to be an annoying American with too much time on his hands; thankfully, being an American is an excuse for any number of things here.   
  
"Percy Weasley," Schuldig says, suddenly.   
  
"What?"   
  
"That's his name. The guy's name, the one you just talked to? That's his name. Percy Weasley."   
  
"Ah."   
  
Schuldig fixes me an irritated glare. "Well, you were wondering about it. What do you care, anyway?"   
  
This was an important question. What do we care for, but our own survival? Why should I care if an action I took today saved the lives of thousands of innocents? I don't care for them much, but I know that there are things that must be done. Perhaps it is Fate; perhaps it is mere instinct. But nonetheless--   
  
"Stop thinking about metaphysical crap," Schuldig says, annoyed. "Jeez, you're worse than Farfarello sometimes."   
  
I smile coldly, and the rest of the drive goes by peacefully.  
  
**

End

**  
  
_Notes: This, like Epilogue, was Beta'd by Patti, who rocks. All mistakes still present are my fault, not hers. This was inspired by a piece of fanart in which Percy Weasley looked so much like Brad that I just *had* to make them have a Talk._


End file.
